This blog is a space for me to rant in that most seventeenth-century sense of the word; and to cut and paste the ideas and comments that don't seem to fit in more traditional forms of academic publication.

Monday, 6 July 2015

This post was commissioned for inclusion in an online symposium on 'history from below' over at the Many Headed Monster, and is best read in conjunction with the other pieces posted there. I am reposting it here just by way of keeping track of stuff.

The purpose and form of history writing has been much debated
in recent months; with micro-history, and by extension history from below,
being roundly condemned by historians Jo Guldi and David Armitage as the
self-serving product of a self-obsessed profession. For Guldi and Armitage the route to power
lies in the writing of grand narrative, designed to inform the debates of modern-day
policy makers – big history from above.
Their call to arms – The History Manifesto – has met with a mixed reception.
Their use of evidence has been demonstrated to fall short of the highest
academic standards, and their attempts to revise that evidence sotto voce has been castigated for its
lack of transparency.

Regardless of the errors made along the way, of more concern
to practitioners of ‘history from below’ is Guldi and Armitage’s assumption that
in order to influence contemporary debate and policy formation we should
abandon beautifully crafted small stories in favour of large narratives that
draw the reader through centuries of clashing forces to some ineluctable
conclusion about the present. I have no
real argument with the kind of history they advocate – and the success of
recent works such as Thomas Piketty’s Capital,
suggest that it can both do justice to the evidence, and contribute modern
policy debate. And I am sure with a
couple of decades’ hard work (there were 19 years between the publication of
the Communist Manifesto, and Das Kapital), Guldi and Armitage will
produce a book that lives up to the hype.

But, they fundamentally miss-represent the politics of
history writing, and of micro-historical analysis in particular. And what they seem to miss is a simple
appreciation of the shock of the old. The
lessons of history are very seldom about ‘how we got here’ with all its
teleological assumptions, but more frequently about how we can think clearly
about the present, when we cannot escape from it.

Understanding classical Greek attitudes to sexuality; Tokugawa
Japan’s system of governance, or the use of concentration camps in the Boer War
is not about grand narrative, but the interrogation of difference. What the past has given us is an ‘infinite
archive’, reflecting a real – if not fully knowable – world. By interrogating that archive, we are freed
to test our assumptions about the present.
In a scientific mode, we might literally test a theory against the
evidence; but just as valid, in a humanist mode we can interrogate a word, a
phrase and emotion for its meaning. In
either case, history rapidly becomes a tool to think with – testing and probing
the past because it allows us to think about the present more carefully.

For this purpose, for the purpose of thinking with
history, the precise topic of historical analysis is secondary, and ‘grand
narrative’ is counterproductive. In
part, grand narrative doesn’t work for this purpose because it is inherently
teleological, and brings with it ill-digested assumptions about how human
society functions. One need look no
further than the facile accounts of empire found in the work of historians like
Niall Fergusson to see the pitfalls; or the risible nationalist diatribes of
‘Historians for Britain’ collective. If
you start with a ‘dog in the fight’ – a defence of American ‘empire’; or an
anti-EU agenda - your ability to see clearly is at least compromised.

‘History from below’, by contrast appeals to a very
different kind of politics; and it is in essence, a politics of empathy and
voice explored through a conversation with the dead. In the British Marxist tradition, it was
founded in the creation of a humanist account of the ‘radical tradition’ that
gave to every stockinger and handloom weaver an identity and personality. The politics of this tradition was found in
the demand that the reader empathise with individual men and women caught in a
whirl of larger historical changes, and it was, and is, a politics of emotion. The methodologies of ‘history from below’ use
detail and empathy to demand of readers a personal engagement with a specific
time and place; just as micro-histories uses the contrast between the everyday
and the remarkable, to force the readers’ engagement.

And as a political project, both ‘history from below’ and
micro-histories have been remarkably successful. The public politics of the west in the last fifty
years have been dominated by forms of the ‘identity’ politics. These new politics have helped to push aside
the twentieth century’s disastrous obsession with nationalisms (the focus of
both older grand narratives, and the crutch leant on by historians such as
Fergusson and ‘Historians for Britain’).

We now have detailed and beautiful histories of the
experience of the enslaved, of people excluded by race, gender and sexuality;
by dis/ability and poverty. Each of
these ‘histories from below’ have evolved in dialogue with contemporary
politics, both feeding the activism of modern campaigns, and perhaps more
importantly, ensuring that no-one can be dismissed as less feeling, less human,
less important, than anyone else. By
changing the focus of historical writing and research, ‘history from below’ has
effectively eroded the inherently racist notion of the ‘volk’ in favour of
‘leuten’; has eroded nationalisms in favour of individual experience.

In other words, history from below has been a remarkably
successful form of cultural politics (and Politics), that owes its basic
success to the creation of an imaginative and empathetic connection between the
individuals, past and present. But to
achieve this end, history from below has made a further contribution to both
historical scholarship and methodology that places it at the centre of a wider
set of developments.

Despite the (over) reliance of historians such as Edward
Thompson on government spy reports, and many social historians’ addiction to
parliamentary ‘blue books’; history from below demands that we seek alternative
pathways to knowing about individuals – that we seek out readings that work
self-consciously against the grain and documents that, however fleetingly,
record the experience from below. And
herein lies the problem and the opportunity.
Our sources create a fundamental tension between the bureaucratic character
of most inherited documentation reflecting experience from below (endless lists
and accounts), and the political work of history from below as a project – to
create empathy across time and space.
The conundrum becomes, how do we turn a name, perhaps a number, if you
are lucky, a single line – in to a human being.

In part, the answer to this quandary has been found in
family and community reconstruction; in the creation of relational databases
that pull together fragments of information from as wide a body of sources as
can be managed. When, for instance,
small fragments of narrative sieved from pauper letters and examinations, are
combined with details of pensions lists and the raw biology available through
the International Genealogical Index, we come close to being able to create compelling
simulacra of the dead. A shared
experience of childbirth, or hunger; of disability or simple poverty, can be
enough to bring to the readers’ minds’ eye a fully formed human being – all the
details filled in via the readers’ imagination.

But even these limited details are unavailable for many. So we also use strategies of detailed
contextualisation. In part, these
strategies mimic the forms of fiction – where small details are used to
compress a scene to it tightest compass.
In history from below, we might use location and the built environment
as ways of giving authority to an event that would otherwise be dull and
off-putting – one of a million settlement examinations; one of five hundred
shared beds in a workhouse. All of which
simply gets us to the point where the form and genre of writing history from
below comes in to direct conflict with the sources we normally use, creating a
tension which in turn explains why ‘history from below’ has been both
remarkably productive in the creation of new methodologies; and why, more
importantly, it creates a need to rethink and remake the genre of history
writing more broadly.

In other words, in the face of challenges from advocates of
‘big history from above’ it seems to me that we are confronted with a series of
opportunities, created by the very practise of writing history from below; that
in turn provide the basis for a fuller political agenda. We have an answer to the siren calls of ‘big
history’. And the answer demands just a
few things.

First, we need to be much more sophisticated in how we
theorise the process of writing and presentation. There is currently no-one seriously unpacking
the literary practise of historical writing from below in a way that would
allow us to examine it as an object of study in its own right. And yet, by being more self-conscious in how
we construct emotion and engagement through textual practise, we can raise our
game substantially – allowing us to recognise (and teach) the different techniques
we use; and to categorise varieties of history writing in new ways. And while no one would want to see too much
self-obsessed naval gazing, there is a real opportunity for substantial criticism
that would in turn allow us to present ‘history from below’ as a more fully
described set of generic conventions. Not perhaps a ‘science’, but a clear
methodological choice.

Second, we need to embrace innovation more fully, and to
identify the digital tools that allow us to construct lives and experience from
the distributed leavings of the dead.
The world of early modern and nineteenth century Britain, in particular,
are newly available to new forms of connection.
Nominal record linkage, building on a generation of work undertaken by
family historians, should allow us to tie up and re-conceptualise the stuff of the
dead, as lives available to write about.
Or we can revolutionise close reading of text through a radical
contextualisation of words. By allowing
every single word or phrase to be mapped against everything written in the year
or decade – we could create a form of close reading that makes for powerful
history writing. Or, we could think
about contextualisation more imaginatively, by adding a few more dimensions to
the context in which we place our objects of study. Where is the 3D courtroom and church pulpit;
where the soundscape and sound model; where the comprehensive weather data that
would allow us to write a life, an event, a moment in new and different detail?

And finally, my
belief is that we need to be more explicit about the political work that we
think ‘history from below’ is doing. If
we think the work contributes to a modern political conversation, I think we
need to say so – not to simply advocate for our own beliefs, but to use the
past to think more carefully about the present.
From my perspective, it does not matter over much if the thinking is
about gender, poverty, race or disability; but about ensuring that a
conversation with the dead forms a part of our conversation about the
present.

When the likes of Jo Guldi and David Armitage, and the
‘Historians for Britain’ group advocate for big history and the longue durée, they are making specific claims about how
they can intervene in a modern politics; and effectively denigrating other
people’s politics along the way. It is
only by countering these claims, and replacing them with our own more subtle analysis
that we can do full justice to the aspirations and labours of our
colleagues. There is a coherent
intellectual project in ‘history from below’, that perhaps needs more critical
inspection, that perhaps needs more technical innovation, but which
nevertheless provides the best opportunity we have to create an inclusive,
progressive, empathetic history – a way of thinking clearly with the past.